Caribbean Crossroads

by Connie E Sokol

  Megan narrowed her eyes. Very different version than Brittany’s. But, more the same as Jillian’s.

  “So you ended it because of presumptive wedding plans.” She stared at the bulbed lights, turning and shuffling.

  “Am I being interviewed on hidden camera here?”

  She smiled but held her ground. He thought for a moment.

  “I’m not much for shopping, and I’m big on loyalty. We dated and it got a bit serious but I wasn’t sure. She played games to get me to make the big step, then jumped ship when I wouldn’t. When the deal wasn’t as sweet with someone else, she came to me as a backup guy. I’m not a backup guy.” She could see his jaw harden. “Brittany was looking for a husband, I just happened to fit the bill.”

  Megan took that in. “And now you’re looking for a wife.”

  Bryant looked sharply at her.

  “Turnabout’s fair play,” she said.

  He stopped dancing. “Whatever it is you wanna say, just say it, Megan. I’ve got nothing to hide and no agenda to push.” His eyes bored into hers, their blueness set off by the clear black rings around them.

  Her name. That feeling enveloped her, a whispered warmth, a sureness in hearing him say it. Suddenly it felt intimate and close with all pretense down, so Megan bored right back. “Do you still care for Brittany, that way? At all?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m big on loyalty too. And I don’t let just anyone kiss me, even if it is on stage, on a cruise ship. Even if it is just one little kiss.”

  Then he smiled, that sun-on-water smile, like he finally understood something.

  “No, I don’t feel anything—that way—for Brittany, at all.” He gently pulled her waist to him, steadily watching her. “And who said it was just one kiss?”

  Leaning down, he softly, gently kissed her mouth, leaving her without thought or fight. She tentatively returned it, then yielded to him, reaching her hand to the back of his neck before remembering herself and pulling back.

  Bryant took her in, calm and studying. “You don’t need to, you know. I’m not here to hurt you. I’ve known it since I saw you on the pier, and I’m still here. You tell me if you’re in.”

  She looked up at him—his earnest expression, his gentleness and security. “I don’t know how to be,” she whispered.

  “Be what?”

  “Be with you, as more than a friend. It doesn’t come naturally.”

  “Yes it does. It has been.” With a small grin he kissed her again, soft and sweet. Pulling away he said, “Just stop focusing on your feet.”

  In spite of the romantic moment, she laughed, free and spontaneous, remembering his mantra. It was the tipping point and she let go, down the rollercoaster with a whoosh. She hugged him closely, fiercely, and he pulled her in, holding her firm and tight as they danced and kissed in a circle to the Jamaican beat, oblivious to the world around them.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hiding behind the black stage curtain, Megan felt a childish nervousness. She remembered in third grade riding her brother’s new bike and crashing it without anyone knowing. She had felt sick until confessing it to her mom. That’s how it seemed now, as if she’d done something wrong and was about to get in trouble.

  All morning Bryant had been kept busy on errands for Mrs. Van De Morelle so they hadn’t connected since last night’s Jamaican date. Scenes from the evening flashed continuously through her mind: touching his hand in the taxi. Getting back to the shuttle barely in time—she smiled—costing Bryant an extra $30 for the taxi to make it. Dancing on the platform under the white bulb lights. She instinctively touched her lips. He had asked if she was in, that he was here, but what did that mean? Why didn’t anyone ever talk about this part? The movies all showed kisses and fade outs and ending credits. What about the now-I-like-you stage? She’d been burned and now she needed something more concrete.

  Hearing sounds, Megan looked around the curtain to see cast members beginning to gather onstage. What should she say, or do, especially in front of them? Nothing. Cast members weren’t supposed to show that kind of affection with each other, so there was nothing to worry about. Megan relaxed. And then she saw his caramel blond hair.

  Bryant walked to the curtain and scooped her up in a crushing hug with a kiss on the cheek.

  He smelled good. Again. But her nervous feeling remained. “I thought cast members weren’t supposed to show physical affection.”

  He laughed outright. “Fifteen weddings and counting.” She flushed—that wasn’t what she had been driving at. “Just as long as couples don’t ‘flaunt’ it, we’re good.”

  Megan panicked, though she had no idea why. “Aren’t you flaunting it by hugging me here?”

  “We’re behind a stage curtain. Besides, you haven’t seen my best flaunting.” He raised his eyebrows like Groucho Marx and loosely pulled her on stage, then kissed her hand and let go to get into position. Turning to her spot, she saw Jillian, her mouth hanging open, jerking a thumb toward an unaware Bryant. Megan shrugged and smiled, but blushed slightly. Jillian gave an enthusiastic but discreet two thumbs-up and started looking for someone, presumably Derek, to dish the news.

  Once again, though it had been awhile, that sensation of being watched came to her. She quickly looked round, but only saw Brittany adjusting her heel strap and the others engaged in conversation.

  Odd.

  The performance was typical and went without a hitch, which was good, because Megan found herself fighting to stay focused. Dancing and singing, she reflexively searched for Bryant, and just as often caught him smiling at her. He seemed completely at ease. Megan alternated between euphoria and nausea. Something nagged at her, different than the doubting gray feeling—a warning, a foreshadowing of what she didn’t want to know. Twice she could have sworn that Brittany was staring at her, but it was merely the position of the troupe.

  After the last bow and the curtain closed, a cacophony of voices swelled in usual conversation—“Heading to the Mirage Deck?” and “We’re catching a bite at The Cove, meet us there.”

  Megan stood at the back curtain, indecisive.

  “What’s a pretty thing like you doing alone backstage?” Bryant breathed it down her neck, like he had done at the beach. She smiled in spite of herself and turned upward to chide him but he leaned in to kiss her. Like a school girl she moved slightly away, checking for who might see.

  Bryant ignored it. “Clint just told me he needs help carrying some damaged scenery backstage. But can I meet you in half an hour? Maybe at—”

  “—the chess boards?”

  “Took the words right out of my mouth. I got some contraband—oven-roasted turkey, rolls, and marbled fudge cake.”

  “How’d you get that?” He could have brought Spam and Megan would have been thrilled.

  “I’ve made a blood oath not to tell.” He stepped even closer. “But I can divulge it has to do with a woman in pearl eyeglasses.”

  “Who thinks you’re the best thing since sliced bread.”

  “Or marbled fudge cake.”

  He leaned into her but she looked around again. Bryant mocked looking left and right like a spy, then planted one on her, shaking his head as he turned to go.

  “And practice up on your … chess.”

  “Ha.”

  She couldn’t deny it, a helium-like sensation rose in her stomach. It was like happiness but different, a sort of freedom and that airy letting go. But still, an unseen weight stuck to the bottom, as if the feeling flew high and free, and then bam, caught on a branch, unable to go farther.

  In the dressing room, Megan kept to the corner stall and changed into sweats as quickly as possible. Opening the stall curtain she gasped, almost walking into Jillian.

  “What—are you stalking me?” Megan put her hand to chest. “You scared me to death.”

  Jillian moved into the stall and closed the curtain. “Okay, spill it. All of it. How long, how strong, and why did you not tell me?”

&
nbsp; “I—what? It’s—I don’t know,” said Megan, feeling claustrophobic. But Jillian put her hands on her hips, unmoved. “Okay but can I mention you’ve been busy with Derek, and sleeping when we got back last night, I might add.”

  “You couldn’t wake me for this? Come on, details. When did this happen? Has he kissed you? I can’t believe you haven’t told me anything.”

  “Shh,” said Megan, peeking out of the muslin curtain to check for listeners, then closed it, continuing in a whisper. “It’s just, I don’t know, it happened. But to be honest, I don’t really know what we are. In fact,” her face clouded, “we haven’t had two seconds to talk today.” She quickly relayed the experience in Jamaica the night before with Jillian responding enthusiastically.

  “But now, I just think it’s strange,” said Megan. “And ridiculous, actually. I mean, where is this gonna go?” For the first time, she said aloud what had plagued her heart. The situation really was ridiculous. “And a kiss? Or a day in Jamaica together, what does that mean? At least to him. I’m not that way, Jillian, you know me. A kiss means something, and a few kisses even more than that. I’m not here to play around, and definitely not to—”

  “Okay, you stop it.” Jillian pointed a finger at her, whispering loudly. “You run with this. I’m telling you girl, he’s the best thing going, well, except for Derek. If he wants to hold your hand, let him hold it. If he wants to smack your lips till they fall off, you say, ‘Smack away.’ If he says I love you, let go and tell him how you feel.” She stepped closer to Megan, finger still pointing. “You jerk this guy around and he’s going to get sick of it. Say what you think, ask him your questions, and talk to him like a real person. I don’t know why you shut down like this, but it is time to stop sabotaging your own happiness.”

  Megan’s eyes watered despite her willing them not to. Jillian grabbed her hands and squeezed, this time her expression soft.

  “Megs, don’t hold back. You can trust him, you really can. He’s wonderful, inside and out, just like he seems. You’re safe.”

  Megan nodded briefly. She could feel it in her soul—a holding back for so long for love and caring and wanting to trust, so full that the right word would make it spill over.

  “Go see him, right now, don’t wait. Well, maybe change into something nicer than old gray sweats, but then go see him. Wrap your arms around him and let yourself sink into this, okay?” Jillian gave her a quick hug, then exited the stall.

  After storing her costume, Megan hurried back to her room to quickly change again. Only this time, she envisioned the capri skirt with white peasant blouse. She couldn’t repress a smile. Checking her watch she frowned—only about 10 minutes until Bryant would be there.

  Entering the hallway to reach her room, she saw Rosa leaning over her cart, stifling sobs.

  “Rosa?” said Megan. “Rosa, what’s the matter?”

  Rosa looked up, surprised to see anyone at the late hour. Upon recognizing Megan, her face crumpled. Still, she withheld talking and only shook her head.

  “It’s me, Rosa, you can tell me. Did someone hurt you?” Megan looked her up and down for any signs of injury.

  “No, no, yees, but not dat,” and she let out a string of troubled Spanish and gesturing to the opposite hallway and the ceiling.

  “Slow down and let me help you. Tell me in simple words.”

  Rosa took a deep breath. “Miguel, mi amor. We get paid, three days ago. We dock. I gave him check. My two checks. I no deposit last time, my shift no over.” She hiccupped. “And he promise to cash. But no come back. He no come back!” She almost wailed but put a hand over her mouth. “He no come back, three days. He fired. The money, all gone. I send my family. I don’t know what to do.”

  Megan was speechless. She put her arm around the puffy-eyed girl. “Rosa, I’m so sorry. Lo siento. I’m sure there’s a good reason.” But Megan spoke more positively than she felt. Bryant’s words in the taxi came back to her—opportunist, manipulator, swindler.

  Bryant. He would know what to do.

  “Rosa? Listen to me, okay?” She took the girl’s face gently in her hands. “It’s going to be all right. I’m going to find the person who can help. No worry, okay? I will get help.”

  Rosa shook her head vehemently. “No, no. If someone find out, I in big trouble. No okay to give checks. I stupid. I be in big trouble.”

  “No you won’t. This help is good. He’ll know what to do and we’ll figure it out, okay? Finish your job then meet me back here in thirty minutes, okay? Thirty minutes, entiendes?”

  She smiled bleakly. “Entendio. Okay, I finish. But no make trouble.”

  “No trouble.” Megan had said it confidently, yet inside, she had no clue what to do. But Bryant would. Or in her soul she hoped so.

  ***

  Clint wiped his forehead. “Just one last piece backstage, if you don’t mind, Bryant. Then I think we’re done.” He hefted three bulky loops of different colored electrical cords. “I’m gonna take these up to the sound booth.”

  Bryant felt a small sheen of sweat on his forehead. “No problem. I’ll lock up.” Clint nodded as he headed down the hallway in the opposite direction. Bryant lightly jogged down the hall and across the stage, but stopped still on the landing.

  “Britt, what are you doing here? I thought everyone was gone?”

  She had changed into hot pink leggings with a tank and low, loose dancer shirt, her hair pulled up with a few curls falling down her neck and shoulders. “Oh, I had to put away some of the costume tubs.”

  Bryant looked confused. “I thought the girls were helping with that.”

  “They were heading to The Cove so I said I’d do it, after I changed.” Something in her voice, Bryant couldn’t place it, but it urged him to finish quickly. Brittany lightly stepped over to a small tote next to a stack of three large tubs, obviously too big for her to carry. Bryant debated, checking his watch, but gave in to the gentleman breeding his mother had instilled in him.

  “Can I help you with those?” he said.

  “Well …” She glanced between him and the stack. “Sure, that would be great. Thanks, Bry.”

  Picking up the small tote, Brittany followed Bryant who had lifted the three tubs in one load, and headed down the dimly lit hall. They stopped at the small stage closet, a 10 by 10 room crammed with props, costumes, DVDs, and boxes of paraphernalia.

  ***

  Megan hurried along the hallways, into the now tomb-like auditorium, crossing over to stage left. She had supposed Bryant would be here but now with the low lighting, wondered if he had finished early after all.

  Turning the corner Megan saw a light flooding eerily from the stage closet into the dim hallway. She wanted to cheer—he was here, he could tell Rosa what to do. It surprised her how automatically she had thought of him, relied on him, knew that she could turn to him. Just like Sam.

  As she drew closer she heard voices—and frowned. One was definitely female. Confused, she walked closer to the room.

  ***

  Scooting in the limited free space of the room, Brittany climbed the small ladder. “If you hand me one at a time, I can put them on the shelf.”

  Bryant paused. Again he felt something in his gut, unclear but insistent, though all he said was, “No, I can do it.”

  “Bry, I’m not a child. Hand me that first one.” And she reached for the tub. “Show went good tonight, huh?” After securing it, she reached for the second.

  He felt a sweat bead rivulet down the side of his face. Something wasn’t right—her tone, her manner. “Yeah, it was a good show. It’s been a pretty mellow run.”

  “But you’ve had some special excitement. And isn’t that part of a good show?”

  He didn’t know what she meant.

  She paused, looking down at him like Juliet in a turret. “I just want you to know, I’m happy for you, Bry. I am. But I think you should know …” Her pink lips pouted as she took the third tub from him.

  Just as she moved
to place it in the cubby it shifted and dropped. Bryant reached for it and she stumbled from the ladder right into Bryant’s outstretched arms.

  With her against him, he fell back into a stack of cardboard boxes that gave with their weight. “Whoa,” he said but she didn’t let go of her arms around his neck as he flailed to get upright.

  “Bry, I’ve never stopped caring about you, not once. I know this is crazy—so crazy—but,” she was crying now, really crying. Bryant tried to take it in but it felt like slow motion video.

  “I love you, Bry, I can’t—how can I help you see it?” Sobbing and clinging she was millimeters from his face. “If you only knew … understood … I always have, and I’m ready now. One more chance, that’s all I’m asking …”

  Still leaning back with her against him, he looked into her wet, fringed blue eyes—pleading and childlike—looked past them to see Megan standing in the doorway with an ashen expression. She uttered one sound, a wounded, soulful cry, then she turned and ran.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bryant almost threw Brittany off of him. “What kind of a stunt was that? Are you insane?”

  She leaned against a stack of boxes, wiping mascara that unwittingly smeared on her face. It struck him that she looked lined and tired, like an old woman who had been in show business too long. “I’m sorry, I had to . . . so you could choose, before … before anything—”

  “Get that out of your head right now, for good.” His voice boomed in the closeness of the room. “There will never be anything between us again. And you can keep those kinds of shenanigans to yourself.” She only nodded—broken, understanding—but still pleaded with her eyes. He turned and ran as fast as he could after Megan. Racing through the hallways and up the deck stairs, he breathed hard and angry. He knew where she would go.

  Reaching the walk-through, he came to a sudden stop. This is where they usually met, it was their place. At one in the morning the chess boards were bare and the deck empty, as always.